


Secretarial Incentives (or: Alternative Uses for Newspapers and Cling Film)

by springbok7



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative Uses for Cling Film, Established Relationship, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Newspapers Keep the Furniture Clean, Power Play, Roleplay, Sexy Times, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 08:41:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11032644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springbok7/pseuds/springbok7
Summary: Captain Watson just wants his secretary to do his job, preferably without mucking up every other task he gives the man. Is that too much to ask? Apparently so. Equally apparent, modern methods for the education of underlings aren't working.Time to try something a little more… traditional, yeah?





	Secretarial Incentives (or: Alternative Uses for Newspapers and Cling Film)

**Author's Note:**

> All my love and respect to [Dassandre](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dassandre) for cheering me on, and for editing this for me.
> 
> You're the best, darling! <3
> 
> All remaining typos and oddities are mine. If you spot any errors and/or feel there should be additional tags, please do let me know. I welcome constructive criticism, but neither support or feed trolls.
> 
> _I do not own these characters. No infringement of copyright is intended and no profit is being made from this piece of fan-fiction._

Dr. John H. Watson was sat in his favourite armchair next to the fireplace of the sitting room in 221B Baker Street on a Friday evening, reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of tea; an empty plate -- still half covered with pastry crust-dotted cling film, upon which a generous slice of Mrs. Hudson's latest pie had rested before he'd polished it off -- lay forgotten beside the mug.

It was quiet, unusually so, and then he recalled that Sherlock had mentioned over dinner the need to run some errands. John sighed, contented, and settled back deeper into the cushioning of the chair, enjoying the peace while it lasted. Something he'd quickly learnt to do over the years he and Sherlock had been together.

He was so engrossed in a fascinating editorial column that he heard neither the front door open nor the sound of footfalls on the stairs. In fact, the first hint John received that he was no longer alone was the sound of a nervous throat clearing, accompanied by equally nervous feet shuffling against the wood flooring just inside the sitting room door. 

John lowered the newspaper slightly, and turned his head to look over his right shoulder at the landing doorway, his head angled down just a touch so that he could look up over his reading glasses, which were perched on the tip of his nose.

Sherlock, or someone who looked rather  _ like _ Sherlock, was stood in the middle of the open space between the low coffee table in front of the sofa, the doorway to the landing, and the edge of the rug on which John's chair resided.

As John's eyes swept over the man shifting from foot to foot, his "ordinary intellect" cataloged the changes. The tailored trousers, the Belstaff, the elegant shoes and well-fitting button-down shirt, even the deerstalker hat that had become something of a trademark, all of them were missing; instead, the restless man's apparel consisted of a pair of scuffed up trainers, cheap grey trousers that had obviously seen better days, a pale-coloured shirt that looked to be a size or two too small, and a mud-brown coat that was threadbare at the elbows and missing a button. A plain dark blue knit cap clutched in shaking, half-glove clad hands completed the outfit.

John sat for a moment, waiting, but the man merely continued to stand there, his weight shifting from side to side as his fingers toyed with the cap, his eyes burning a hole into the wood at his feet.

"Well?" John finally barked out, wanting to get on with it or get back to his newspaper.

The lanky man startled at the harsh sound, and his fingers tightened on the knit material he was clutching like a life-preserver.

"Uh, s-s-sorry to disturb you at home, C-captain, sir, but…" he managed to stutter out, and John used all his considerable willpower to squash the grin that threatened to explode across his face -- it had been far too long -- and took a deep breath as he closed his eyes. Exhaling silently on a ten-count, his eyes opened as his back straightened, his mind sinking into the persona of Captain Watson.

When the silence stretched out into a second minute, the Captain snapped, "Spit it out, man. Haven't got all night!"

The downcast eyes flicked up to the Captain’s face for a split second before returning to their careful examination of his cheap and scruffy trainers.

"S-s-sorry, sir, I, uh… that is… I ahh....," his swallow was clearly audible to his employer as the man watched his employee's Adam's apple bob up and down. Then, in a rush of speech, he managed to complete his sentence, "I wanted to apologise for the mistake I made today. I'm terribly sorry!"

The Captain continued to stare at him over his reading glasses, then questioned him, " _ Which _ mistake?"

"The… umm... m-mucking up the purchase order, sir! I'll get it sorted out first thing in the morning!"

"And the others?" the Captain continued his questioning.

"O-o-others, sir?" was his stuttered reply, knuckles almost white with the force of his grip on the poor knit cap.

"Yes. Really, Mr. Holmes.You've been my secretary for how long now?"

"N-nineteen months, sir."

"Nineteen months. Almost two years, and yet you can't even do a simple purchase order. Not to mention the royal mess you made of the invitations to the department dinner party next week. You couldn't even send the cards to the correct addresses! I had two telephone calls today complaining of it. It was embarrassing, Mr. Holmes! Utterly embarrassing! And don't even get me started on the travel arrangements you've cocked up this week."

The man in question seemed to hunch in on himself at the Captain's words; his shoulders lifting towards his ears as if preparing to ward off a blow.

"Well, what do you have to say for yourself?" the soldier barked out.

Mr. Holmes jumped at the harsh words, his eyes lifting to make contact with Captain Watson's, "Please, sir, g-give me another chance!"

"Give me one  _ good _ reason why I shouldn't sack you on the spot!" was the even harsher rejoinder from the still-seated Captain.

"I… I really need this job, sir! W-whatever you want, I'll do anything, please!" his secretary stammered out as he took a step forward, holding one hand out in entreaty.

Captain Watson just sat and stared at Mr. Holmes until his grey eyes dropped to the floor and his hand lowered.

"I'm s-sorry, sir. That was too forward of me. I, ah, I'll pick up my things in the morn--"

"Did you mean it?" the Captain spoke softly but with steel beneath his words.

"Sir?"

The Captain sighed as he straightened his shoulders, turning away from the tousled-headed man standing a few feet away from him. He enunciated clearly and slowly, as if speaking to a simpleton. "Did you mean what you just said about doing  _ anything _ to keep your job?"

The swallow was again audible to his ears, as was the shakiness of the indrawn breath before he gave his answer. "Y-yes, sir, a-a-anything, sir, p-p-please, sir!'

"Right, then. Take off your coat. You can leave it over the chair there." Captain Watson gestured vaguely in the direction of the doorway behind the secretary. "Hat and gloves, too," he continued, when a sideward glance showed him the younger man looking at his crumpled cap in confusion.

A quick bob of the head followed by a mumbled, "Yes, sir," and Mr. Holmes did as he had been told, stripping off the finger gloves and shrugging out of the tatty coat, leaving gloves and cap on the seat of the chair by the doorway and draping the coat over the back of it.

He returned to his spot at the edge of the carpet and waited for further instructions, his long and elegant fingers tangling together in front of him.

Captain Watson folded up his newspaper, pushed himself up off the comfortable seat cushion, and tossed the newspaper over the back of the chair before turning to face the younger man. Walking slowly, he prowled closer to the uncomfortable Mr. Holmes who stood stock-still in his too small shirt and ill-fitting trousers.

Clicking his tongue disapprovingly, the Captain circled his prey. "Aren't we paying you enough, Mr. Holmes? Surely you can afford better clothes than these? I'm a Captain in Her Majesty's Army, for Christ's sake! There are appearances that must be maintained. Really, what must people think, seeing my secretary so poorly put together? It reflects on  _ me _ , you know. Badly."

Again, the lanky man seemed to hunch in on himself unable to meet the Captain’s gaze as his superior rounded his side and came to a stop directly in front of him.

"Well, Mr. Holmes? What pathetic excuse do you have for yourself?" the Captain demanded when no answered appeared to be forthcoming.

"S-s-sorry, sir, I-I'm sorry, sir! I, ah, I didn't mean to m-make you look badly, sir! It's my mother, you see, sir. She's ill. I send most of my salary--"

"As I said, a  _ pathetic _ excuse," the shorter man callously cut him off mid-sentence, casually waving him to silence before crossing his arms in front of him.

"Right. Unbutton your shirt," was his next gruff instruction.

Mr. Holmes stilled, and his wide eyes lifted to the piercing gaze before him.

"S-s-sir?" he questioned, quailing at the frown on the face of the Captain that pinned him in place like an insect to the board in a entomology specimen display.

"Are you deaf as well as stupid?" retorted the impatient man, his brows beetling in annoyance at the delay. "You heard me. Unbutton your shirt!"

When there was still no movement from the gangly man, the soldier snapped, "D'you not want your job then?"

The wide eyes widened even further at the swift crack of the words in the air and quite without a conscious decision being made, Mr. Holmes’ fingers were shakily undoing the top button of his pale shirt.

"Hands behind your back," came the next instruction the moment the final button was released. The command was followed swiftly this time, causing Mr. Holmes’ shirt to fall open and reveal the pale contours of the flesh previously concealed by it.

Stepping forward with a lascivious leer on his face, Captain Watson pressed the palms of both hands against the pale sternum before him. The flesh twitched at his touch, and the Captain could hear the hitch in Mr. Holmes’ breath that the contact triggered, but he ignored both in favour of skimming his hands up over Mr. Holmes' clavicles to his shoulders, hooking his thumbs over the collar of the shirt and drawing it down over the wiry but well-muscled biceps to the elbows. Captain Watson then pulled his hands away, leaving Mr. Holmes' arms trapped in the cheap material as he stared straight ahead at a point somewhere over the Captain's shoulder, no longer able to maintain eye contact with the shorter man.

Without a word, the Captain stepped behind Mr. Holmes and tugged on the pale material. At the same time, he lifted his secretary's hands to clasp each opposing elbow, before twisting the front panels of the shirt about Mr. Holmes’ forearms and tying the tail ends together, effectively binding the shivering man's arms in place behind him.

"S-s-sir?" questioned the man with trepidation, breaking off his staring contest with the opposite wall to turn his head towards his employer.

"Quiet, you!" he was gruffly instructed before a firm grip closed over his bound forearms and the nape of his bare neck. Pressure on the right side of each prompted him to take a step toward the chair in which Captain Watson had been seated.

Rather than being sat in the chair, however, Mr. Holmes was guided around to the back of it, and once his hips were firmly pressed against the newspaper hanging over the upholstery, pressure on the nape of his neck forced him to bend at the waist until his forehead touched against the seat cushion.

He shuddered against the frame of the chair, his mind furiously filling in the details of what a sight he must make, draped over its back, face pressed into the cushion still warm from the arse of his superior while his own arse pushed up towards the ceiling. He shuddered again and felt his face and ears flush pink; he bit his lower lip to suppress the moan of humiliation and unacknowledged want that was fighting to escape.

The hand that had clasped his nape released its grip and slowly slid across his skin until it joined its fellow where Mr. Holmes’ arms crossed his back against the base of his ribs. The two hands then traced the knobs of his spine until calloused fingertips reached the waistband of his trousers, whereupon they separated, slipping down over his hips until meeting again in front of his pelvis where the precise and nimble fingers unbuckled his belt and unfastened the button beneath it.

Mr. Holmes tried to lift up to look behind him at the owner of those hands, but he was pitched too far forward to have enough leverage, especially with his arms trapped behind him, to do more than raise his head from the upholstery.

The bent man drew an even shakier breath and questioned, yet again, "S-s-sir? W-what are you going to d-do to m-me?"

To his surprise, the Captain deigned to answer him, even as his fingers located the zip of the cheap, grey trousers and pulled it down sharply, punctuating his words with the decisive action, "You fucked up, Mr. Holmes. Quite spectacularly, I might add. Three times in the last week. And not for the first time either. Since simple reprimands haven't seemed to bring the lesson home over these past few months, I thought I'd try something a little different this time around."

Mr. Holmes' breath stuttered in his chest, and he closed his eyes as he fought down the whine attempting to claw its way up his throat.

When he felt he had himself mostly under control again, he continued, "But, s-s-sir, I'm not, uh, that is… I'm… not… g-g-ga--"

"I don't care what you are, Mr. Holmes!" was the cutting rejoinder. "Right now you're whatever I say you are.  _ Anything _ for your job, remember?"

Exhaling in what might have been almost a sob, his head dropped back down, and Mr. Holmes', "Yes, sir," was partially muffled by the cushion.  He then startled as his trousers and pants were unceremoniously pulled down to hang around his knees which had been pulled back sharply by the same action, lifting his feet from the floor just enough to shift his weight so that his hips and abdomen rested on the back of the chair, and his cheek and upper chest rested on the seat cushion.

"Besides," the brisk tones continued over his head, "who said anything about shagging you? I was thinking of something a little more… traditional."

"S-sir?"

But he was cut short when the hand that had been stroking across the flesh of his exposed backside lifted suddenly and then smacked back down again, the sound echoed sharply in the quiet of the flat before the equally sharp sting of the contact registered in Mr. Holmes's brain, and he sucked in a pained breath.

"Sir! Please! You can't be serious!" he gasped once he had gathered his wits enough to try and struggle up from his vulnerable position. His efforts were in vain, though. The Captain's left hand retained its firm grip on his bound arms, and Mr. Holmes could get no leverage regardless of how his feet scrabbled against the floor. With all his weight pressed down against the chair back, there was no way for him to get his feet under him either.

The chair was also cleverly weighted at the front so that his efforts allowed for not even the slightest tipping. He was stuck in place for the time being.

"Since the reprimands don't seem to make an impression, perhaps a different  _ impression _ needs to be made, eh?" was the only reply the Captain made before his hand lifted again.

A second stinging slap across the other buttock froze Mr. Holmes’ struggles in their tracks, and this time the sting seemed to curl along his spine before it reached his brain, another gasp shuddering through him at the sensation.

"I'm only doing this to help you," the unsympathetic voice continued over his head, and three more blows landed on the pinkening skin of the poor secretary's arse. "I've tried correcting your work the civilised way, the way normal adults would, but that hasn't worked now, has it?" 

A sixth smack was delivered when Mr. Holmes made no answer to the question posed to him, and the question was repeated sharply.

"Has it?" 

"N-no, sir!" Mr. Holmes gasped out as his back arched up under his bound arms when a seventh swat landed, this one slightly lower toward his thigh.

"Please, sir! I'm sorry, sir!" he cried out as an eighth and ninth swat landed across the crease between buttock and thigh, the burn of it rivaling the burn behind his eyelids at the humiliation of it all.

"If you are going to behave like a naughty schoolboy, what choice do I have but to treat you as such and punish you accordingly? Just be grateful it's a hand and not a switch!" the Captain bit out as he landed the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth smacks across the decidedly rosy backside before him.

Rather than argue the point further, Mr. Holmes merely renewed his efforts to get out from under the hand tightly gripping his bound forearms and remove his backside from beneath the series of blows that the Captain continued to deliver to his target. His bottom was burning as the next four swats landed, and he could no longer contain the yelps that each forced from him.

As the blows continued to land, the Captain not seeming to hold back but delivering each with painful force, the burn of the spanking spread, until by the twentieth, every inch of Mr. Holmes' skin felt superheated, and he was certain that his entire body was steaming hot and glowing.

His breath sobbing from his lungs, his struggles finally ceased, and Mr. Holmes seemed to melt bonelessly into the fabric of the chair, his cheek resting on the warm cushion beneath him.

The Captain paused for a moment to rub his hand across the heated flesh, admiring the rosy tint the punishment had brought forth from the previously pale skin.

As the Captain's hand stroked across his secretary's bottom, and despite said secretary's increasingly desperate efforts to contain it, a low moan escaped the man's lips and he shivered.  As his head was turned to rest his cheek on the cushion, the fabric did nothing to muffle the sound.

"Bollocks!" exclaimed the Captain in consternation as he halted the gentler touch, "You actually  _ like _ this, you twisted, little fuck!"

"Yesss," the embarrassed man groaned as he blushed, "Please, sir. Please don't stop! Whatever you want, but please don't stop!"

A pleased smirk painted itself across the Captain's face as he heard the words. "Anything?" he questioned.

"Yes! Yes, sir!  _ Anything _ , sir!" came the fervent reply.

His smirk only widened, and with a warning squeeze to the confined limb beneath his left hand, Captain Watson skated both hands down over the pink flesh of the taut arse and pulled the cheeks apart to examine the tender little hole so lewdly displayed for him.

He brushed a thumb over the trembling muscle and growled deep in his throat when he felt the bent man jerk and twitch at the intimate contact, another moan ripped from his lips and ghosted across the cushion beneath his cheek at the touch.

Releasing his grip, the Captain landed four quick and heavy smacks to the top and sides of Mr. Holmes' bottom. The man in question arched up off the cushions with a pained cry at the first blow before melting back down against the fabric with another filthy moan as the blows continued to fall.

As his hand lifted to deliver the twenty-fifth slap, the Captain noted the involuntary movement of his secretary's hips, and growled again. He delivered the next three blows in quick succession before pausing to snatch up the cling film still attached to the plate on which his piece of pie had rested.

Mr. Holmes panted against the fabric of the chair cushion but made no other reaction as the Captain laid the clear plastic over those spread arse cheeks and sank to his knees.

Holding the rosy cheeks apart as widely as he could, the smirking Captain leaned forward and licked a stripe right over the sensitive flesh, incidentally catching a few flakes of pie crust from the plastic as he did so. Mrs. Hudson's pie crust really was one of the best he'd ever had; she wasn't stingy with the butter.

The panting man so widely spread before him jerked again at the soft touch and shuddered from head to toe.

His smirk widening even more, the Captain ran his tongue across the delicate skin, the sensation only mildly dulled by the plastic barrier.

A quavering "Wha--" from his secretary was quickly cut off as the tip of the Captain's tongue danced over the puckered muscle of his arse hole, which clenched and relaxed rhythmically at the contact, whimpers spilling from its owner's mouth.

He pressed the flat of his tongue against Mr. Holmes' perineum, keeping the pressure firm as he moved upward, a whine and a gasp were the rewards for his efforts.

Pulling away a little, the Captain flicked the skin lightly with the tip of his tongue as he worked his way back down again over the quivering anus, across the perineum, and then up and down the testicles that shook with every shuddering breath of the man bent over the back of his favourite chair.

The Captain continued to lavish attention on the sensitive skin beneath the clear plastic film, licking, nibbling, flicking, swirling, and teasing, until the man on the chair was shivering and shuddering constantly, his hips bucking quite without his input or notice. Groans and whimpers and moans fell from Mr. Holmes’ lips, words, too, when he had the breath to spare for them. At first he asked bewildered questions. "How can this feel so good?" and "Oh Christ, sir, what're you doing to me?" But as the pleasure built, full sentences were replaced with "Oh, Christ!" and "So good!" and slowly turned into fragmented begging, "Please, sir!" or just "Please!"

Eventually, though, all he could verbalise was "Please!" The rest was lost beneath gasps and whimpers, so overwhelmed was he by the sensory overload that coherent thought escaped him.

The Captain pulled back, his fingers kneading the heated flesh, and questioned somewhat cruelly, "What is it you want? What are you begging for?" But if Mr. Holmes heard him at all, he gave no sign of it, any external sound lost under the onslaught of internal noise: his heart pounding, blood thundering in his ears, air shuddering into his lungs on shallow breaths as he panted desperately against the chair cushion.

Standing up slowly, barely able to suppress a groan of pain as his legs protested having been kept in one position for so long, the Captain struggled to his feet. He surveyed the sight before him with satisfaction: his underling was sprawled across the chair, his legs hanging down with the tops of his trainers dragging on the floor, his reddened arse looking like some luscious fruit waiting to be devoured, all wantonly displayed like a cheap rent-boy trying to entice a trick.

As the Captain stood contemplating his work and the recipient of it, it occurred to him that the lesson might need to be reinforced. Memory is a fickle thing, and time dulls even the sharpest of reminders. Pulling out his mobile, he snapped a picture of the tableau.

He pocketed the device, meaning to be shot of the whole bollocking, when he recalled that the inept secretary also carried a mobile, and a brilliant idea struck him. Nothing like a visual aid to assist those who weren't the quickest of studies; a picture worth a thousand words and all that. Glancing at said inept secretary, his brows furrowed a moment. The man had a mobile, he was sure of it -- in fact that was half the reason the wretched fellow was such an abysmal secretary, the vast majority of his time was spent on the blasted device -- but he hadn't felt one in either pocket of the man's trousers.

Turning in a slow circle, he looked around his sitting room wondering where the man could have put it, and then spotted the tatty and threadbare brown coat, still draped over the chair by the door.

Two strides later, and the Captain was riffling through the coat's pockets.  He found the mobile. Along with a strip of condoms. And a tube of lubricant.

And a pair of disposable gloves that looked to be far too small for the long-fingered hands of the coat's owner.

But perfect for a certain doctor's.

Well, now. Not gay?

As he held the spoils of his investigation in his hands, the twist of the Captain’s mouth could scarcely be labeled a grin, and certainly not a smile. The toothy gleam beneath curving lips and the sharp eyes beneath lowered eyelids oozed predatory intent as he unerringly found his target.

He lifted the purloined mobile and snapped a picture before sliding the device back into the pocket from whence it came. All the while the hapless underling hung limply across the chair, shuddering and twitching occasionally with need.

The Captain pocketed the gloves and dropped the strip and the tube beside his empty teacup. He quietly unzipped his trousers, circling the chair as his secretary continued to pant, and then stood before it with his arms crossed, waiting for the man to catch his breath and regain at least some of his senses.

He watched as the shudders finally subsided, and the man in front of him began to blink himself back to awareness. Despite the painful ache of his own erection still confined by his pants -- although thankfully no longer restricted by the sturdy corduroy -- the Captain was completely focused on watching, and thus caught the exact moment when Mr. Holmes became aware of him standing in front of the chair.

The inverted man did not move, but every line of his body shifted from boneless to vibrating with tension as his eyes sharpened from their half-lidded languid stare at nothing. As if that weren't enough of a tell, the harsh sound of his panting suddenly ceased once Mr. Holmes became aware of it and immediately tried to moderate it.

The Captain laughed at him, somewhat rudely, and uncrossed his arms to reach one hand out and tangle his fingers in the already very tangled curls resting on the cushion.

"Time to move on to the next stage," he announced as he exerted a slow upward pull and lifted the head of his secretary from the cushion.

The man blinked at him in confusion as the Captain finally released his hard length from the confines of his pants with his free hand.

"Open up, Mr. Holmes," he instructed the dazed man, whose quavering "Wha--" was quickly cut off as the Captain thrust forward into his mouth as soon as his lips had parted enough.

He wasn't cruel enough to force his full length into Mr. Holmes' mouth, but rather he let the head rest on the man’s tongue, giving him a chance to catch up with his change of circumstance.

Instead of further protests or resistance, as he had half expected, the man's eyelids fluttered closed and sultry lips closed around the Captain's girth, enveloping him in the heated wetness of his secretary's mouth. 

He grit his teeth against his own moan as the delicate point of the soft tongue flicked over his skin, mapping out the shape and texture, tracing over the veins of the foreskin, and touching lightly against the slit.

The Captain tried as best he could to stay still, letting the bent man pull against his hand to take more of him into his mouth. But the wet heat and silken texture of the tongue dancing across his skin broke through his control at irregular intervals, and his hips twitched forward involuntarily, leaving just a little more of his length enveloped in heavenly torture each time. 

Straining up as far as he could, using the grip in his hair as a pivot point, the sprawling and bound man drew as much of the Captain's tender flesh into his mouth as he could, relaxing his throat as the head neared it, swallowing as much of it as he could reach.

The secretary moaned at the fullness of his mouth, the vibrations of the moan causing the Captain to both tighten his grip on the curls tangled in his fist and jerk his hips forward, pushing even deeper into his underling's throat.

As the man sucked gently, hollowing his cheeks and swirling his tongue as best he was able over the sensitive skin, the Captain could no longer contain himself, and a groan that seemed to come from the depths of his soul clawed its way out of his body. Shuddering, twitching hips gave mute testimony to the near silent struggle for control that the Captain was having.

"Oh, fuck!" he grunted, and his hips snapped forward yet again in response to the exquisite and torturous pleasure that skated up his spine when that amazing tongue found another extra-sensitive spot, right at the base of his penis.

That hip snap pushed the last little bit of him into the scorching heat of his secretary's mouth and buried the other man’s nose in the musky coarse hair of his groin; it also broke the last little bit of the Captain’s self-control.

Tightening his fist, he held the suspended head of his secretary still and pumped his hips, sliding almost completely out before changing direction and slowly sliding as far into that wet, hot, furnace of a mouth as he could, past teeth and tongue and further still until he could feel the delicious vibrations of the throat swallowing around him. Then out again, and slowly in, finding a steady rhythm that built the pleasure carefully, methodically, not so fast that he would spill himself too soon, and not so slow that it was entirely torturous.

A miniscule portion of his brain noted that there was no gagging, no tears from beneath closed lids and no snot mingling with escaping saliva, and most definitely no begging or protests; no evidence whatsoever that this was the first time his ‘not-gay’ secretary had performed fellatio.

As he maintained his balanced pace, the Captain reveled not only in his own self control that allowed him to draw out his pleasure for as long as possible but also in the iron control he held over his helpless secretary in spite of the vibrations of the man's smooth swallowing that danced over the Captain's skin and drew him another fraction closer to the completion he was so carefully pursuing.

And then the bastard hummed. The vibrations from  _ that _ ...

"Jesus Christ!" his back arched and his knees shook, and it took every ounce of army-instilled discipline for him to remain upright.

Despite his face being squashed up against the Captain's pelvis, a second set of vibrations bubbled up the secretary's throat and tingled along the Captain's cock. The army doctor was less than amused to realise that the cheeky sod was laughing.

"Think it's funny?" he grunted as he leaned forward and laid an open-palmed, glancing wallop on the still-rosy backside in front of him, his full length still sheathed completely in the lanky bastard's mouth and throat.

This time it was the secretary's back that arched, his eyes flying wide open in surprise and a pained but muffled yelp escaped him. That yelp did interesting things to the Captain, the physical mechanics of it dancing along his sensitive skin while a frisson of pleasure at the sound itself ran down his back to curl at the base of his spine.

He finally pulled back at the waist, sliding half his length out from the glistening lips that encircled the flesh. The lips parted further, and he could hear the harsh panting as the man drew in as much air as he could.

The Captain chuckled somewhat cruelly, and twisted his fingers tighter in the curly hair trapped within his fist. He pulled up, arching the sweat-coated back before him even further and pulling the man's mouth from his own saliva-drenched skin.

He leaned forward and caught up the strip of condoms from the side table. Dangling them in plain sight of the man suspended beneath his other fist, he leaned closer and growled softly near the man's ear, "Not gay, Mr. Holmes?"

The man in question shuddered as the puff of air hit his ear, then whimpered as his hair was tugged pointedly. He blushed redder than a beet root as his eyes landed on the strip in front of his face.

His spit-coated penis jutting out obscenely from his pants and trousers, the Captain crouched down in front of the chair, lowering the blushing man's cheek to the seat cushion; the gangly secretary's eyes remained fixed on the Captain's cock as the Captain rested his elbows on his knees with his chin on his fists and frowned down at the top of the curl-covered head.

The doctor tilted his head contemplatively as he saw the unchanging stare directed at his nether regions and noted the pink tongue tip that slid along parted lips.

He dropped one hand and loosely encircled himself with fingers and thumb, stroking up and back down once.

The man draped over the chair inhaled sharply, his entire body seeming to shake with the force of it, while his eyes widened again and -- there, there it was again, the pink tip of his tongue peeking out from between his lips as he gasped in that shuddering breath.

"This what you want, Mr. Holmes?" the Captain growled out as his hand continued its snail's pace stroking centimetres from the blushing man's face.

That man's eyes closed for a heartbeat, and he swallowed thickly; his eyes opened and looked up to catch the crouching man's gaze.

"P-please, sir. Please!" he stuttered, needing to clear his throat twice before the words would come.

"Please what, Mr. Holmes? Please wank off on your face? Please leave you trussed up on my chair all night? Out with it. I want to hear you say it!"

The man so addressed coughed in surprise and, if it was possible, his blush intensified even more. It took him several attempts, but eventually he was able to choke out the two most important words, as instructed.

"F-fuck me! Sir, please! I… I…. ah…. need… please, sir!"

Disregarding the second portion of the plea, the Captain grinned like a wolf at a tender young fawn.

"Fuck you, hmm? Well, since you went to all this trouble… but on my terms, and how  _ I _ want it!"

At the hurried and vehement nodding he got in response, the Captain climbed back to his feet, his still wet length still jutting out from the front of his pants and bobbing in the air as he moved.

Catching up the tube of lubricant as he passed by, he circled the table until he stood behind the chair once more, the rosy blush of the earlier spanking still very much present and on display, the pink little arsehole clearly visible as its muscles flexed and quivered under the plastic film still clinging to it.

The doctor ran each hand over a heated buttock before again landing sharp swats on each curved cheek.

The secretary yelped both times and then moaned when the Captain slotted his slick member up against the smooth plastic film and rutted up between his buttocks.

He whimpered when the Captain lifted his hand and landed two more glancing blows on the mounds of flesh that formed the walls of the channel in which his cock lay, groaning at the sensation of clenching muscles pressing in against him.

"Sir. Please, sir," a whisper of sound reached the Captain's ears.

He grinned and stepped back and to the side, removing his hard member from the valley of the begging man's arse and then removing the disposable gloves from his pocket and snapping them on.

The provider of the gloves twitched and shuddered at the sharp sounds, then gasped as the gloved man peeled the cling film away from his sensitive arse.

He gasped again at the chill of the lubricant dripping slowly from the tube in the doctor's hand onto the burning heat of his right buttock. The doctor collected the slick liquid with his cupped palm sliding over that burning skin and drew the bulk of the cool substance up towards the bent man's tailbone before guiding it down towards its intended target.

He trailed fingers and thumb under a fresh squeeze of lube and then began smearing the cold slick from the base of his secretary's bollocks to the tip of his tailbone.

The man shivered and then moaned when gloved fingers passed over his perineum and then continued up the tense muscle. He groaned and then whimpered as the doctor's slick-coated gloved hand splayed across his right buttock. The doctor's thumb swirled across the sensitive ring of muscle so flagrantly displayed to him and pressed the tip into the centre of the ring, applying a firm pressure but not breaching it. Yet.

The Captain withdrew his thumb and skated a touch with the tips of his fingers up the redden cheek and over the tailbone before dragging the pad of his index finger straight down until he reached the scrotum dangling between trembling thighs.

He cupped the solid weight of it in his palm, rolling the especially sensitive globular flesh of the testicles between his fingers. He stretched the scrotal sac as he moved the testicles within it this way and that, tugging lightly on the skin of a testicle and drawing a low moan from the man bent over the chair.

Transferring his attention a little higher, the Captain traced over the perineum with his index and middle fingers, alternating light and firm pressure as he swept the two fingers around the area, short swipes from side to side, a slow oval from top to bottom, a firm press in the centre that made the lanky man gasp and twitch and shudder. His back arched, pulling his shoulders up from the seat cushion for a short moment.

Twisting his gloved hand around, the Captain once more ran the pad of his thumb over the tight pucker of anus nestled between the rosy red cheeks. As he circled the ring with his thumb, he applied a steady pressure, and dripped yet more cold lubricant directly onto the skin beneath his thumb.

The lanky secretary startled as the cold liquid slipped over his heated skin and then startled again as the glove-clad thumb pressed into him slowly, pushing some of the cold slick inside.

That thumb massaged the muscle that encircled it and sent a shiver of goosebumps blooming across the secretary's skin. A whine escaped him as he pushed back against the delightful intrusion as best he could.

"Eager little sod, aren't you, Mr. Holmes?" the Captain's question received no answer as he pressed in and out with his thumb.  The recipient of his attention focused all of his own on the delightful sensation sparking along his nerves as the thumb moved within him.

After another minute or two, the doctor pulled his thumb back and replaced it with his index finger, slipping easily into the slight opening left behind by its thicker neighbour.

He was in no hurry, so rather than force both joints inside at once, he slid his finger in only just past the first joint and then back out again to swirl it around the well-slicked ring of muscle it had just breached. He repeated that action a half dozen times, each time pressing just a little bit deeper inside until finally, finally the second joint passed through the opening and he could flex his finger inside.

Which he did. A number of times. Pulling out and swirling over the surrounding skin then diving back in again and stroking over the tissue there, crooking his finger repeatedly and twisting his wrist as he moved the strong digit in and out of the tight hole.

When he could feel the man pushing back against him, and hear the occasional moans and whimpers slipping from his lips, the Captain slipped his finger free and drizzled a generous amount of the cold lubricant onto the exposed rosebud.

Using both his index and middle finger, he again rubbed the slippery liquid into the muscle of the anus, conveniently also coating the two digits with a good amount of the lube.

This time, instead of pushing in slowly and teasing the panting secretary, he thrust both fingers into the man's arsehole, right down to the third knuckle. The man yelped and arched up off the cushion, and then groaned deeply as the Captain began pumping in and out rapidly with his fingers, twisting his wrist and flexing the embedded fingers as they moved.

The poor secretary had no choice but to take the punishing pace set by his employer, but he didn't seem to be complaining, panting heavily against the cushion as the pace increase, gasping wetly at a particularly energetic wrist rotation or finger flex.

As the rapid pace held steady, the doctor's questing fingers found that special spot deep inside and punched a sharp cry from the tangle-headed man, whose hips bucked at the contact, completely out of his control.

As Mr. Holmes’ hips began to find a rhythm to their thrusting, the Captain stilled the movement of his impaling hand and set the tube of lubricant down on the conveniently located tailbone in front of him. He reached his other hand into his pocket and pulled out the strip of condoms.

Setting his teeth on the packet at the end of the strip, he carefully tore along the perforations to separate that packet from the rest and then stuffed the remainder back into his pocket.

Still gripping the packet between his teeth, he pinched a corner between index and middle finger and pulled sharply, thankfully tearing the foil packet open and not whacking himself on the nose. He set the torn packet down beside the tube of lubrication and, after sliding his palm over the slick-coated buttock before him, reached down to grip himself loosely, spreading the warmed liquid along with his precome over the skin.

With the fingers of one hand still fully buried in the arse a short distance from his own leaking flesh, he took up the opened foil packet and reseated it between his teeth to allow him to draw the condom out with his free hand. He spat the ripped foil onto the floor and one-handedly rolled the thing down onto his slicked erection, shuddering a little at the chill before the thin material warmed to body temperature.

He caught up the tube of lubricant from its temporary resting spot and dribbled a slow but steady stream of it onto his condom-encased flesh, glad of the condom to insulate him from the lubricant's perpetual chill.

Snapping the cover closed, he dropped the tube back onto the quivering tailbone just centimetres from where his buried fingers began moving again, finding the same rhythm as before, but this time joined in that rhythm by his other hand reaching down and smearing the slick liquid over the surface of the condom.

The man bent over the chair gasped as the movement in and out of his arse began once more, and his neglected cock bobbed against the newspaper still draped over the back of the chair under his hips. As his cock bobbed, its weeping tip left a trail of precum on the inked paper.

When his hips began to jerk and his breath changed from gasps to panting, the man behind him withdrew his glove-clad fingers and gripped himself instead, sliding the latex-clad flesh a few times up and down the quivering skin between rosy cheeks.

When the bound Mr. Holmes began pushing back as best he could, the Captain smirked down at him and then lined himself up with the flexing arsehole winking up at him. He pressed forward slowly, drawing a long and low groan from the mouth panting into the seat cushion as the head of his penis breached the ring of muscle and slipped inside.

Releasing his grip on himself, he transferred his hands to the bent hips and then -- exercising iron control over himself, no matter how much he wanted to slam the full length of his cock right into the tight heat as far as it could go -- the Captain inched forward, pressing in a little and then pulling back before pressing forward again a little more. The open-mouthed gasps and groans his slow progress elicited from his secretary were music to his ears, and made it that much harder not to just thrust forcefully.

Finally, after what felt like hours, his hips pressed up against the red flesh of the secretary's buttocks, and the Captain was fully seated within him. The moan that fled his parted lips seemed to come from the base of his lungs as his hips twitched and forced his length just a fraction of an inch deeper.

Pausing for only a moment to catch his breath, the Captain pulled back, almost his entire length sliding out until only the head of his cock remained within the luscious heat. A shudder wracked the lanky man's body as the Captain pushed forward again, as far as he could.

That pattern of pulling almost completely out and then pushing back in as far as he could go was carefully paced with each repetition just a fraction faster than the previous, building ever so slowly in speed until finally -- finally! -- the Captain was slamming forward hard enough to force a grunt out of the secretary each time he bottomed out.

As the pace increased, Mr. Holmes began to moan out fragments, "Oh, God!" and "Please!" and "Fuck, oh, fuck!" with the occasional plea for "Harder!" or "Faster!" or even "Oh God, right there! Oh fuck! Please, sir! Please!"

Some small part of the Captain's brain was delighted to see his somewhat prim and proper secretary reduced to such plebian language. A veritable guttersnipe he was turning out to be, given the right… motivation.

Releasing his strong grip on the man's right hip, he lifted his hand and carefully laid a heavy swat against the outer surface of the man's buttock, causing him to yelp and clench his muscles, and the Captain could no more stop the groan of pleasure that erupted from his lips than he could stop the tides from rising with the pull of the moon.

Maintaining his brutal pace, he lifted his left hand and landed a second smack against the already rosy skin before him.

Again the sting caused a yip of pain from the recipient and an exquisite clench of muscles gripped the Captain's flesh.

For several long minutes, the room was filled only with the wet smack of skin between buttocks and thighs, and the drier smack of skin between gloved palms and heated buttocks, punctuated with groans and moans and yelps of pleasure mixed with pain. 

Eventually the steady rhythm set by the Captain began to stutter and slow as speed was converted into power, each forceful thrust lifting the bound man's hips from the back of the chair, pressing his head and shoulders deeply into the giving surface as his weight was momentarily transferred forward, and knocking the tube of lubrication off his back and down onto the seat cushion.

Not long after the rhythm shifted, the pleasure that had been coiling tighter and tighter at the base of the Captain's spine and sparking at the root of his cock spread like molten lightning, crackling along his limbs and his hips snapped forward one final time, buried to the hilt in the hot passageway of his secretary's arse.  Come spurted into the waiting condom as he hung in space, head tipped back, mouth wide and panting, glove-clad fingers digging into his secretary's hips so hard that there would be eight deep bruises left as mute testimony to the force of his orgasm.

When finally his hips stopped twitching and shuddering, and he could actually make sense of the room around him, the Captain pulled out slowly and carefully and slid the condom free, knotting the latex before lobbing it into the bin on the other side of his chair.

The secretary, however, was still hard though his penis slipped and slid through the large patch of precome smeared over the newspaper.

The Captain grunted in satisfaction at the sight and then dipped the first two fingers of his left hand into the slightly gaping hole that was rhythmically clenching and unclenching on nothing, begging mutely to be filled again.

With his right hand he reached down between the secretary's quivering thighs and wrapped his fingers around the straining flesh. He squeezed firmly as he slid the still slightly slick surface of the glove over the burning heat. A long moan rewarded his efforts.

Speeding up the action of each hand, he pumped his fingers in and out of the still tight arsehole while twisting the wrist of his right hand to slide his firm grip not only up and down the cock he held but also around it, sliding a finger over the tip each time he encountered it.

The secretary was lost in the excruciating pleasure of it all: the fire that burned in the skin of both buttocks and the backs and sides of his thighs, the sparking electric storm of need that built and built under his skin and skittered up his spine, the pleasant ache in his arsehole and the exquisite pleasure/pain each time the fingers pounding into him connected with his prostate, the heavenly tug and slide and pull of the hand on his cock.

He was not above begging for his release, and given his treatment so far he would not be surprised if the Captain was waiting for just that.

"Oh. Ah! Please, sir! Please, may I come?" he moaned.

Despite his own panting breaths, he was certain he heard the Captain's hitch at his question.

A few even more brutal thrusts and pulls, and the Captain granted his permission. "Come now, Mr. Holmes!"

Mr. Holmes cried out as he finally, finally let go, and the hot come spurted from him, painting the newspaper serendipitously hanging beneath him and dribbling down the gloved fist that continued to work him through the aftershocks until he was so sensitive he had to beg for respite.

The Captain finally released his grip and withdrew his fingers, peeling off the gloves and dropping the pair into the rubbish bin as he passed it on the way to the kitchen where he collected a tea towel from a cupboard and dampened it under the hot tap.

Returning to the still bent man, he wiped him down, arse and cock and thighs, and then wiped himself down as well. Wadding up the material, he dropped the dirty cloth onto the pie plate and then leaned forward and gripped the bound arms of the man, pulling up and lifting the man from the cushions.

With an arm around his shoulders to steady him, he guided him around the chair slowly, letting him shuffle his feet as they moved, his pants and trousers still tangled up around his knees.

Once they were in front of the chair, John sat down on the saliva-dampened seat and carefully untangled the pants and trousers before pulling them back up over the pale flesh of Sherlock's thighs. He then reached down and unlaced the trainers and helped Sherlock slip his feet out. He leaned back into the chair then, his head brushing against the forgotten newspaper still hanging over the back as he gathered Sherlock into his arms, settling the taller man across his lap curled in on himself impossibly small against John's chest as he tucked his head under John's chin, his cheek resting against his own knees.

"So, how was it?" John finally asked his partner.

"Splendid!" was Sherlock's enthusiastic but clearly tired response. "You took me out of my head completely. The endorphins are almost as good as heroin!"

John frowned at that last comment.

"Oh give over, John, I'm not actually  _ using _ heroin, merely drawing a comparison." Sherlock spoke to his knees, apparently knowing exactly what expression John wore without even seeing it.

John sighed. Reading between the lines was a necessity with Sherlock. In order to compare two experiences, one must have  _ had  _ both.

"Though, next time," Sherlock continued, undaunted by the scowl now disturbing his partner's eyebrows above his own tangled curls, "there's a riding crop I've been wanting to try out."

John raised an eyebrow at the eager man, "Oh really? I've not had any experience wielding a crop."

"Oh, but  _ I _ have," Sherlock lifted his head and grinned at him over his shoulder, and John couldn't resist leaning forward to press a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth even as he grinned back.

"You have, have you? Sounds like fun, perhaps Mr. Black might need to take the crop for a test run with that recalcitrant ostler of his."

Sherlock's eyes lit up, and John knew he'd made the right call. He wasn't nearly the fan of pleasure/pain that Sherlock was, but he didn't mind the occasional spot on the receiving end. He shivered in anticipation at the remembered pleasure of the last time they'd played that dynamic.

No matter which way they arranged the power, he knew he loved Sherlock more than anything and that Sherlock loved him just as much. In spite of himself.

 

~~~~~ The End…? ~~~~~

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are like morsels of chocolate, tasty and wonderful to receive, but comments, ah those are like hearty lamb stew, they fill you up and satisfy long after the meal is over. Constructive criticism is always welcomed, but flames will be used to toast the marshmallows on tap as dessert.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy this <3


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